


It's The Little Things

by CallMeBombshell



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-17
Updated: 2011-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeBombshell/pseuds/CallMeBombshell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins when Arthur meets Eames for the first time in a restaurant in New York City, and it begins in a diner in Chicago, and it begins in a warehouse in Paris, and it begins in a hotel room in Los Angeles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's The Little Things

It starts like this:

It's been six years since Arthur first met Eames in a restaurant in New York City. They sat across a table from each other with Mal and Dom on either side like a barrier as Dom talked about bringing Eames in on their next job. 

Eames smiled and nodded and waved his hands in elaborate and strangely communicative gestures, and Dom and Mal smiled back and said they were happy he was accepting their proposition. Arthur, for his part, stayed largely silent, speaking only to supply details about the job. He kept his eyes on Dom, on Mal, on his plate and his uneaten food, but never on Eames. Eames kept his eyes on Arthur. Arthur couldn't help but think that made them even, somehow.

The first time Arthur sees Eames forge, he can't help but be impressed. Their mark is a banking mogul, paranoid and tight-lipped, and the only chance they have of prying his secrets from him is to use his twin sister, the only person he's ever confided in. Hence, the need for a forger. 

When Mal suggests that they all go under so that Eames can show them his work, Arthur isn't sure what to expect. The room Eames drops them into is plainly furnished, pale wood floor and cream coloured walls without windows, an oak wardrobe in one corner and a tall three-paned mirror in the opposite corner, beside which sits a simple wooden chair. 

Eames walks over to the wardrobe and shuffles through hangers. He pulls out a dress, dark blue and fairly conservative, but the lines are elegant and classic and Arthur can see that a woman would have a difficult time not looking good in it. 

"This is roughly her style, wouldn't you say?" Eames asks and Arthur sees Mal nod, a small smile playing on her lips. 

"Excellent," Eames says, crossing the room to drape the dress over the back on the chair where he can see it. "Always nice when I've already got something on hand. I don't mind making new things, but it does take some time to get right sometimes."

He steps in front of the mirror, peering at his reflection. He tilts his head to the side, shrugs his shoulders, stretches out his back. The whole time, he is speaking.

"See, the trick," he says as he flexes out his arms, "isn't in  _looking_  exactly like someone. It's more in the way they move."

He takes off his jacket, dropping it to the side  _(Arthur hears the muffled whisper of fabric as it hits the floor but when he looks down, the jacket is gone)_  and continues, "People's appearances change all the time, especially with women. New haircut, new style of clothes, new makeup, whatever. But the way a person moves, that stays more or less the same. It's how we're able to easily identify people we know without needing to see their faces."

Arthur blinks suddenly. He is certain that Eames' shirt when they arrived had been green, but now it is dark blue, the same blue of his trousers. The same blue of the dress draped across the back of the chair beside him. Eames is still facing the mirror, twisting his shoulders, rolling his head on his neck, shifting his feet. He seems suddenly shorter, and he brings his hands up to card through his hair. When his hands reach his neck, his hair is longer, brushing his shoulders, and a darker, richer brown than his own. Arthur watches as Eames' hands continue moving, smoothing over his shoulders and down his sides to his hips. He flicks his fingers out, now long and slender, before turning around for them to see.

Where Eames' hands have been, the fabric of his clothes have smoothed together, shifted, changed, until he is wearing the dress he'd laid out. He is shorter now, his face different, big brown eyes and thin lips so unlike his own; his waist dips inwards, then flares out into the curves of his hips.

"So," he says, and his voice is higher, breathier. "What do you think?"

Dom is staring, awestruck, while Mal steps forward, walking in a full circle around Not-Eames.

"It is perfect," she says, smiling. "You are no longer you at all."

"Thank you," Eames says, and Arthur thinks Mal is maybe a bit wrong, because the smile that Eames sends him is all his. "I do try to impress," Eames says to Mal, but his eyes are on Arthur the whole time.

 

  
The first time Arthur has dinner with Eames, they are in Chicago and it's an accident. 

Perhaps it would be more accurate to call it a coincidence, but that seems to imply a certain sense of unconcernedness that Arthur really does not feel towards the situation. Calling it an accident, on the other hand, implies that is was awkward and strange and that someone was to blame, and Arthur would quite like blame Eames for ruining his evening by choosing to walk into Arthur's favourite diner, rather than admitting that Eames had no idea whatsoever that Arthur would be there, or that it would be so crowded, or that the only available seat would be the stool at the bar right beside Arthur.

"Fancy meeting you here," Eames says as he slides onto the stool, flashing Arthur a grin, the ones Arthur privately thinks are too wide, too open, too generally friendly to be giving out freely to someone who has gone to immense lengths to avoid speaking to said grinner.

"This is your neck of the woods, right?" Eames asks, nodding his thanks to the harassed-looking waitress who's just handed him a menu. "Got any suggestions for what's good? I've never been here before, obviously."

"I'd have liked it to stay that way," Arthur mutters, half-hoping Eames won't hear and Arthur can go back to ignoring him, and half-hoping he will so maybe Eames will take the hint and leave Arthur alone. Eames, however, just laughs slightly and tells the waitress he'll have the grilled chicken sandwich and a cup of coffee,  _thanks very much, love._

Eames' sandwich takes ages to arrive, and in the meantime he takes to asking Arthur questions, about the jobs he's taken since they last worked together, about how Dom and Mal are doing, about the places he's been recently. Arthur answers in a few words as he can and hides behind his burger as much as possible. Eames doesn't seem deterred, though, and just keeps talking and Arthur keeps giving short answers and when Eames' sandwich finally arrives and he shuts up in favour of eating, Arthur actually has to pause and look over for a moment when he realises they've fallen silent.

Arthur finishes his food first, having gotten started earlier, but for some reason he lingers, getting refills of his coffee and sipping at it slowly until Eames has brushed the last of the crumbs off his fingers. The stand outside for a moment while Arthur shrugs into his coat and Eames lights up a cigarette.

"I've got a job," Eames says as he slides his lighter back into his pocket. "Just round the corner from here. I'll be here for a week or two. Maybe we could have lunch sometime."

Arthur isn't sure what startles him more, the invitation, or the fact that he actually pauses for a moment to consider it. But, "I won't be here," he says "I'm flying to New Orleans in the morning."

"Shame," Eames says, and Arthur thinks he might actually mean it.

They part without any further words, walking away in opposite directions, and Arthur flies out the next morning and Eames gets on with his job and they don't mention it after that.

 

  
 _(A year and a half later, Mal is pregnant with a baby girl and Dom calls them both in for a job in the city. He meets them at the airport and says, as they're leaving, "I'm starving, so let's find somewhere to sit down and eat and I'll tell you both the details."_

 _Arthur feels eyes on him and looks up to meet Eames' gaze. Eames smiles slightly and says, "There's this lovely diner that I know of...")_

 

  
Arthur has known Eames for four years and six months when Mal dies. This is relevant only because Arthur has  _(had)_  known Mal for only six months longer and five years seems like the sort of anniversary they should have celebrated somehow, a nice dinner somewhere, or a bottle of champagne at the Cobbs’ house.

Instead, Arthur is standing on damp grass beneath the shade of an old maple tree. There is dirt on the knees of his black trousers from kneeling beside Mal's grave as her coffin was lowered into the ground. The front of his shirt is wrinkled from where James had gripped it tight, shoulders shaking with silent tears. 

 

  
Four hours later, Arthur stumbles across his hotel room, cursing as his hip bangs into the counter as he passes the kitchenette. There is someone knocking at his door and Arthur swings it open.

"What?" he snaps.

Eames stands on the other side, heavy black coat over black jacket and trousers and shirt. He opens his mouth, closes it, swallows, opens it again. 

"Can I come in?"

His voice is quiet, and Arthur blinks at him for a moment before shrugging and turning around to stumble back down the hall, leaving the door open behind him. He reaches the mini bar across the room and hears the click of the door closing and the sound of Eames shrugging out of his coat. Arthur ignores him in favour of closing his hands around a number of small bottles of vodka.

He slumps down on the couch, tugging the cap off the first bottle and tossing it back, draining the entire bottle in one go. He closes his eyes, imagining he can feel the vodka leaking into his veins from where it's pooling, warm and burning in his stomach. 

When he opens his eyes again, the ceiling is spinning slightly and Eames is standing over him, mouth turned down in a frown and something like concern in his eyes.

"Cheers," Arthur says, raising the second bottle of vodka in a mocking sort of toast.

"To what?" Eames says, and his voice is still quiet, cautious.

"Five years," Arthur says, the words running together slightly. "Five years since I met Mal." He twists the cap off the second bottle, draining it just as fast as the first. He tosses it down and gropes for the third, but Eames' hands close around his just as he gets a hold of it.

"Arthur," Eames says, and there's no denying the concern in his voice this time. "Arthur, how much have you had to drink?"

Arthur looks around the room, avoiding looking at Eames. There is a small collection of empty bottles forming under the coffee table. Arthur tries to count them, but they're moving around too much.

"All the whiskey, I think," he says. "I wan’ed the wine but that's for cel'brating with  _people_  and there wasn't anyone so I couldn't."

Eames makes a small noise and Arthur looks up to see Eames watching him, his forehead creased with worry. His hands are still curled around Arthur's, curled around the bottle of vodka. 

"Oh, pet," Eames' says, and there's something about the way his voice breaks, the way his eyes seem too wet, and suddenly Arthur realises that Eames is worried about him.

"I'm sorry," he says, because it seems like the right thing to say, and because Eames is still looking at him like that and Arthur knows that he may not like Eames very much, that he may think he's irritating and loud, and he may roll his eyes and grind his teeth whenever they have to work together, but all the same he knows that it isn't grief putting that look in Eames' eyes, it's him. Somehow, Arthur thinks that is unbearable.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

His eyes slide shut soon after that, dropping him into blissful unconsciousness; the last thing he remembers before the blackness reaches across his vision is the sight of Eames' eyes boring into his own, tears sliding slowly down his cheeks and Eames' voice saying  _Go to sleep, darling._

 

  
Arthur doesn't see Eames again for a year after he meets up with Cobb  _(never Dom anymore, always Cobb, because Dom was Mal's and she's gone now)_  in Rome. Cobb doesn't stop moving, so Arthur doesn't stop either, and by the time they end up leaving Tokyo in Saito's private jet, Arthur has seen more of the world than he ever thought he'd get to.

It isn't really a surprise when Cobb tells him that they'll need Eames for the Fischer job, and Arthur really can't come up with any reason not to bring him in. It's not even much of a surprise either when Eames flirts and teases and makes the most of every opportunity to ruffle Arthur's feathers. What is surprising, though, is when Arthur finds himself responding in kind.

He makes sharp comments that he knows Eames will snark at, pokes at Eames the same way Eames pokes at him. Eames pushes at him, and Arthur pushes right back and if he finds himself smiling  _(always hidden, where no one else can see)_  sometimes at Eames' quick, sniping comments, well, no one else really needs to know. 

And if Arthur looks up often to find Eames' eyes on him, well, that's between the two of them. 

For the first time, Arthur finds himself staring back.

 

  
 _(The job goes wrong. They make it back anyway. The idea takes after all.)_

 

  
Afterward, Arthur lingers outside the airport until he feels someone come to stand beside him.

"Where to, Arthur?" Eames asks, and Arthur doesn't bother hiding his smile as he hails a taxi. He grabs Eames' bags along with his own and loads them into the back. 

"I have a room booked," he tells Eames, knowing he'll understand the invitation; he doesn't think Eames will say no. Eames smiles at him, genuine and soft, and slides into the taxi beside Arthur.

 

  
 _(Later, Arthur presses Eames against a wall, against the sheets, presses himself against Eames. Later, there is the hot press and slide of their lips and hands and skin slick with sweat. Later, there are lazy, sated smiles and quiet murmurs mingled with shared breath on the pillows. Later, there are Arthur's eyes sliding shut, lips curved into a smile, and Eames' arms around him, watching with soft eyes as Arthur falls asleep. But before that, Arthur remembers...)_

 

  
It begins when Arthur meets Eames for the first time in a restaurant in New York City, and it begins in a diner in Chicago, and it begins in a warehouse in Paris, and it begins in a hotel room in Los Angeles.

But for Arthur it begins in Eames' mind, on the very first job they work together.

There are two minutes left in the dream, and Arthur is slumped against a wall, bleeding from a stomach wound. Eames is beside him, his hands pressed against the broken skin, trying desperately to stop the bleeding, but Arthur knows there is no use.

"Leave it, Eames," he hisses from behind clenched teeth. "Leave it, there's nothing you can do."

He scrabbles at his side for the knife he'd been holding, the knife he'd dropped in order to clutch at the hole in his stomach when he'd been shot. His fingers close around the hilt and he brings it up enough that Eames can see it. 

Eames shakes his head. "Arthur, no..."

"There's nothing you can do," Arthur repeats. "Just do it, it's easier." He thrusts the knife at Eames and Eames takes it reluctantly, wrapping hesitant fingers around Arthur's fingers wrapped around the hilt. He nods.

"Only for you," he says.

Arthur pulls his hands away and Eames grips the knife in one hand. The other comes up to rest heavy at the back of Arthur's neck as Eames positions the blade above Arthur's heart. His eyes are on Arthur's, and Arthur is vaguely surprised at how pained Eames looks.

"I'll see you on the other side," he says, because it seems like he should say something. 

Eames opens his mouth but doesn't say anything, just closes it again with a nod. His eyes find Arthur's and he doesn't look away as he takes a deep breath and pushes the blade into Arthur's chest.

Arthur wakes up with a jolt. His chest aches vaguely and he can still feel the phantom warmth of Eames' hand against the back of his neck. Eames himself jerks awake only moments later and his eyes snap open, darting sideways to land on Arthur. They stare at each other for a moment in silence, until Arthur realises, blinking.

He stands, looks away, clears his throat. "Thank you," he says.

Eames voice is rough when he asks, "For what?"

"For making it painless," Arthur says, and he can feel Eames' eyes on him for a long moment.

"Only for you, Arthur," Eames says finally, again, and there is a note of sincerity in his voice that makes Arthur turn.

Eames is watching him with careful eyes, and Arthur lets the weight of Eames' remark wash over him as Eames stands carefully and walks away without a word. Arthur watches him go, his mind spinning.

A small smile creeps across his face, and Arthur thinks, suddenly, that perhaps Eames isn't so bad.

 

  
 **END**


End file.
